Ghostbusters Doom Patrol: Whatever It Takes
by R. L. Smith
Summary: A young man is faced with a crucial decision between life and death. Will he get rich or die trying?


Ghostbusters: Doom Patrol

Author: Robert Smith

Editor-in-Chief: Robert Smith

"**Whatever It Takes"**

Not long ago, Camden, NJ was a war zone. I was born there and in my old neighborhood, a brotha's only option was survival. Everyday, life was a nightmare. I've lost my brother to gang violence. He was killed in a drive-by. I miss him. Since he died, my momma hasn't been the same. She use to cry at night and feared that what happened to him wouldn't happen to me. But, she was a strong woman. My father on the other hand had always been nonexistent; left us before I was born. I never got the chance to know him, but I'm actually glad I didn't. The welt on my mother's back was all I needed to know. It was hard; we got by. We weren't exactly the Jeffersons. I grew up in the public school system…not by choice. Hell wasn't a fictional place; it was my life. My momma scrimped and saved to pay the bills. Sometimes she had two…three jobs. I don't remember how many exactly, but I know she made sure we had food on the table. I tried to do my part too.

I got my first job when I was fourteen years old at the corner store up the street from our apartment. It wasn't much. Minimum wage back then was $3.15 an hour. I had other jobs that didn't pan out so well, one of them was working for the Public Works Department for the city. I tried my best to help momma out whenever I could, but sometimes it wasn't enough. You see, where I'm from you've only got three choices: work a shit job, hustle, or pimp. Seeing my boys make 500…600 dollars a night hustling dope, I decided to choose the middle road. I made sure momma never knew. By the time I was sixteen, I was all about business. Making money the hard way suddenly became the easy way. I've never killed a man and I've never wanted to. Two years went by and I never got caught selling drugs. Mothafucka', I thought I was hot shit. No one could touch me. I brought home enough money every week to make sure the bills were paid. Momma asked many times where the money came from. I never told her, but I suspected she knew. We used the money anyway, because regardless of where I got it, we needed to eat and stay warm. The way she looked at me had changed…and it was hard to bear. I'd rather have died by the gun than continue to disappoint her.

One day on a routine run, I was sent to pick up an order of smack for my supplier. I'd done this many times over, but that one time…one time, all hell broke loose. Someone snitched us out to the cops. I was pissed, but more so…I didn't want to go to jail. Five squad cars pulled up in front of the warehouse were I was about to make the pick-up. When they flashed those red and blue lights outside, I knew we weren't popular. The crew inside the warehouse was ready for anything; those cats were ready to die. I didn't have a gun on me; I hated them. For as long as I'd been selling dope, I refused to wear a piece because I always remembered my brother. But that time, I didn't have a choice. One of the buyers handed me a gun. I said no, I didn't want it. He insisted. Then again, having a .45 magnum pointed to your head is a good convincing tool. Outside the building, a Sergeant or some pig yelled for us to come out quietly. That wasn't gonna' happen. Next thing I heard was another voice; they sent in a negotiator to persuade us out. That ain't never happened before; that was bullshit. Aside from the situation, I had a bad feeling something was going on. All the while the negotiator was saying what she needed to say to mellow us up, the SWAT team stormed through the backdoor.

It was an ambush. The others started firing and capping any cop that came close. I took cover behind a crate. I'd never been more scared in my life. I've seen death, but I didn't want to die. Everywhere, bodies were dropping hard. Blood soaked the concrete floor. This wasn't supposed to happen. All I thought about was my Momma. I didn't mean for this to happen. I lost my brother and she was about to lose me. I gripped the gun in my hand and tried to process what the hell was going on. I thought about it long enough, stared at the gun shaft and rose slowly. The SWAT team didn't see me. I was small for my age, which gave me the advantage. As soon as I pulled back the clip, the cops heard. They jerked around, prepared to fire at will…but they didn't. I held the gun in my hand, aimed for whatever and whoever. I was holding back tears, trying to man-up. I wasn't gonna' let a pig see me cry. My face was stained with sweat and blood. The room was silent, with the exception of the sound of my breathing. I looked around, seeing all these rifles pointed at me. I had a feeling things were going to end one way or another. I was about to close my eyes, but then saw one cop step forward. His gun was clamped tight in his hand and then spoke to me.

"Son, it doesn't have to be this way. Come on."

I spent my entire life not trusting cops. I lost faith in them a long time ago. Where were they when I needed them? Where were they when my brother needed them?

"Don't call me 'son'! Fuck you, nigga'. You don't even know my name. Who are you to tell me what to do?" I replied.

"You're right, I don't know you. But, I'll introduce myself. I'm Officer Creed…John Creed. Nice to meet you; and you are?"

I didn't know what to make of it. Shit, there we were about to shoot each other and then we made pleasantries?

"Robert…"

"Alright, Robert, look around. There's nobody left. We don't want to hurt you. You've got a way out, come with us and no body else has to die today."

I slowly pulled back the trigger. I was scared. It was real, but felt like a dream…the kind where you know you're there, but you don't feel like you're there. I had nothing left in me. I was tired.

"Robert, you can kill me and these guys behind me might kill you. Maybe you think we don't matter, maybe you think the same about yourself. But, what about the ones you love in your life. Are you willing to sacrifice yourself for nothing?

I thought about my Momma…

"…What are you prepared to do?" Creed asked.

Tears streamed down my face. I looked around at the bodies on the floor and said, "…Whatever it takes."

After that incident I did my time in jail and took all my chances. Life is something isn't it? Well, I guess you live and you learn.

* * *

_Several years later…_

* * *

A police vehicle pulled up in front of a decrepit building in the slums of East Camden. A muscular, light-skin black man exited the car, wearing a modified navy blue body suit.

"…Oh, God, its you. Thanks for answering our call on such short notice."

"Not a problem. We weren't far. What's your status? The black man asked the young officer in front of his squad car, as a team of patrolmen was about to raid a crack house in downtown Camden.

"Sir, there appears to be eight men within the proximity and two female hostages. We sent a few of our men near the entrance of the building to survey the perimeter. Noxious fumes emanated from the windows and some kind of force blocked us from getting inside. We wouldn't have called you if this were an average drug raid.

Behind the stoic gentleman, four of his colleagues had stepped out of the car, an all-terrain vehicle equipped with various sorts of anti-human combat apparatus.

"What are you prepared to do?" The officer asked.

Mr. Robert Statler replied, "Whatever it takes."


End file.
